I live a life of wilful sloth and glorious self-indulgence. Whether that qualifies as a lifestyle I have no idea and don’t really care, having been too caught up in doing what needed to be done to keep the boats afloat to investigate the concept of ‘lifestyle choices’ when it popped up as a buzzword back whenever that was.
Fortunately for me, my self-indulgence doesn’t involve food, alcohol or material possessions. If it did, I would be obese, broke and permanently half cut. As it is, I read when I should be sweeping the floor, stay up way past a reasonable bedtime and get up again when the mood takes me, guilt kicks in, or the phone rings – usually option two, because despite the sloth, I do still have Standards, which also ensure that I don’t live in a pigsty. I wouldn’t enjoy that.
So I suppose to that extent I do make lifestyle choices without calling them that, having an inbuilt resistance to fabulous new concepts that turn out to be a new name for the wheel.
In this case, I’ve probably also been put off by the ‘style’ part. I don’t do style except on special occasions, and even then, I find it stressful. If you set out to be stylish, you also set yourself up to be measured against other people’s style monitors, which automatically torpedoes your status as wallpaper.
Wallpaper is good.
Life is good.
Lifestyles are for other people.